


Bringing In The Storm

by InAmongstTheMountains



Series: The First Spell [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4260414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InAmongstTheMountains/pseuds/InAmongstTheMountains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First in a three part series of drabbles, of my mages and their first spells. My warden Sheridan Amell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringing In The Storm

Her first spell was lightning.  
  
At 6, the magic was young in her, but Sheridan already had some idea that she was different. The Revered Mother was not her mother, the church she lived in wasn't her home, the sisters were not her sisters, whose faces had since fluttered out of memory, replaced with foggy colors. Some days she tried to pretend that they could have been, that the blurry spots in her brain from the day it all changed could somehow be erased. But she remembered, with faces forgotten, the sounds of her siblings crying, and her mother pleading with the intimidating men in armor. A new home they said, until life spoke differently.  
  
She didn't understand at six any better than she did at five. Why did they take her away from her mum? Where were her brother and sister? Could she ever go back? What had been wrong? Would she be stuck in this church on the hill forever, doomed to be one of those old ladies who only said the Chant? Sheridan shuddered at the very thought. No way, that would be so boring!  
  
Then the storm came and with it, her magic.  
  
Thunder shook the roof and vibrated the stones, making walking barefoot an experience. Sheridan couldn't sleep, so she slipped from bed, past the slumbering sisters, and out into the long shadows between the pews. The drums of the downpour rolled again, and lightning split the sky, a glare so harsh it came through the stain glass without taking the colors with it. Little Sheridan Amell wanted to spot the Maker's power in the black skies outside.  
  
Bare feet made not a sound crossing the stone, even if the storm had not been raging. Rain dripped down the glass,  and the stone beaded with moisture, damp under her fingers and reflecting the glow of Andraste's eternal flame. She had to balance on tiptoes to get a view into the valley below where the bolts danced over the tree tops. Her grey eyes wide, goose bumps rose on her arms. Sheridan bounced with excited energy each time the light touched down with an accompanying boom. Her hand tingled, as if she could reach out to the storm and touch it. A swooping sensation pulled at her stomach, like when you jump from a tall height and energy crackled to life at her fingertips. Purple sparks in miniature hopped across her palm, distracting Sheridan from the storm. Her mouth matched her eyes, agape at this new sensation, turning her hand to see all angles of the unexpected power. Was this... magic?  
  
A sudden crack of thunder sent her slipping from the window. The floor rose up to meet her, but somehow her lightning stayed, flickering playfully across her hand still even as she picked herself up.  
  
"By Andraste's grace, preserve us!"  
  
One of the elderly chanters stood in her nightgown, candle wax dripping to the floor unnoticed as she stared at Sheridan and the magic that sparked around her. Surprise and fear in equal measure weighed the deep lines of her face,   
  
The young girl turned, raising the lightning in her palm, another bolt of light illuminated her in the same pose as the Herald herself holding her flame aloft beside her.   
  
"I brought the storm inside." She responded simply.  
  
The men in intimidating armor came the next day, and they watched her like a dangerous animal. As her home-yet-not-home disappeared behind her, the templar's horses making their way down the into the valley still crisp and dripping from the rain, Sheridan asked where she was going. The knight whose horse she sat chained to replied; a new home, he said, until life spoke differently.


End file.
